THE MOSS JtOSE, 
FROM THE GERMAN. 
BY J. B. 
The Angel the.flowers one day, 
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay ; 
That spirit to whom charge is given 
To bathe young buds in dews of Heaven 
Awaking from his light repose, 
The angel whispered to the rose :— 
u Oh, fondest object of my care, 
Still fairest found, where all is fair ; 
For the sweet shade thou giv’st to me, 
Ask what thou wilt, ’tis granted thee!” 
“ Then,” said the rose, with deepen’d glow, 
u On me another grace bestow.” 
The spirit paused in silent thought:— 
What grace was there the flower had not ?— 
’Twas but a moment—o’er the rose 
A veil of moss the angel throws ; 
And robed in Nature’s simplest weed, 
Could there a flower that rose exceed ? 
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